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From: Incest Man <familyincestfamilyincest@yahoo.com>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories,alt.sex.stories.hetero,alt.sex.stories.d
Subject: story: "The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane" (bf mF mF+) Part 7D
Date: Sat, 12 Aug 2006 14:12:10 -0700
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===================
http://www.incesttabooo.com/mathaj.html
The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane
Part 7D
Mom convulsed into a tight ball on her side and retched
quietly, weakly, making a small sticky red stain in the
Kleenex she held to her mouth. Then she relaxed with a
pitiful moan.
"What's wrong?" I asked, going swiftly to her side of the
bed.
She licked her lips clean and tried to catch her breath.
Not getting an answer, I raised my voice fearfully.
"What's wrong? What happened?"
"I'm sick, Speedy. It came on...all of a sudden."
"What's wrong? When did it start?"
"Called your daddy...but he said he had to work late."
I was incensed at her words. "Had to work late? Work
late? What does he expect you to do, just stay sick?"
"Well, I don't know...maybe it'll just clear up."
"How long have you been sick?"
She shrugged, taking in a deep breath and wiping her lips
again. "A couple of hours, I guess."
"You've been sick for hours and he just says he has to work
late?" I threw up my hands in anger and walked in a small,
confused circle in the room and looked back down at her
with my eyes flaring. "What can I do?"
She shook her head. She hid her face from me and did not
seem to want to tell me what was happening. "I don't
know...Call your daddy, and see what he says."
I went straight to the kitchen wall phone and telephoned
the grocery store. My step dad answered the phone with a
tired, bored voice.
"Mama's real sick," I said. "She's throwing up blood."
"Hell, it's one of those female things, she's been sick to
her stomach and throwing up for weeks."
"But she's throwing up blood!" I insisted. "You don't
throw up blood when you're just sick to your stomach."
"I told you, it's one of those female things. That kind of
stuff is all in their minds, anyway."
"Well...what should I do?"
"Don't do anything," he answered, unconcerned. "I'll be
home in about an hour or two. Tell her to drink some
water."
"But...she's acting like it hurts really bad."
"You know how she is, she overdoes everything. Tell her to
drink some water or some soda, and I'll be home later."
His indifference told me I was wasting my time. I said I
would look after Mom, said good-bye and ran back into the
bedroom where I stood beside the bed, helpless and
frustrated.
"He said drink some water and he'll be home later."
"I can't drink water," Mom said, her breath short and
labored. "I tried that, it came right up." Then she made
a retching sound again, down deep in her throat, and tried
to hold back. But another convulsion soon overtook her and
she coiled up again, her neck stretching in a fierce heave
outward, and more blood spilled onto the tissue and onto
the bedspread. This time she did not simply moan and come
out of it, but bent herself into a small trembling circle
and grasped her stomach and began to cry and cough.
I touched her shoulder, but did not know what to do. She
heaved again, and groaned, and finally relaxed.
"Mom...What can I do?"
She hid her face but reached out with one hand and grabbed
my arm tightly. Her fingers trembled and her entire form
shivered. She spoke with a breathless rasp, "Go down the
street...to Aunt Catherine's. I tried to call her, but her
line's busy...bring her here."
My Aunt Catherine was one of my step-dad's sisters. She
lived in a house a few doors down from ours. Quickly, my
fear for my Mom's pain giving me a bloodcurdling case of
the shakes, I ran to the front door.
"Put your jacket on!" my mother yelled. "It's cold
outside!"
I thought: to hell with the damn jacket! I rushed into the
night and ran up the street as fast as I could. By the
time I pounded on Aunt Catherine's front door I was out of
breath. I tried not to panic. I told Aunt Catherine to
get to my house as fast as she could, that my Mom was
deathly sick and it was getting worse.
She stood in the doorway gaping at me. "Why, Speedy,
what's wrong?"
"I don't know. She needs somebody. Hurry!"
"But what's the-- -?"
"Now! She needs somebody now!"
Quickly she grabbed her overcoat and threw it loosely over
her shoulders. "You stay here," she said, trying to calm
both herself and me. "Watch my baby, Speedy, I can't leave
her here alone. I'm goin' down there right now, don't you
worry." And she ran down the sidewalk with her loose coat
flapping in the wind.
I watched Aunt Catherine's sleeping infant for over half an
hour. Several times I peeked out the front door to see
what might be happening down the street at my house. Then
an ambulance with flashing lights pulled into our driveway.
I longed to get a closer look but was afraid to leave the
baby alone. Going back to check on the child I found her
still sleeping, and by the time I returned to the front
door, two whiteuniformed attendants were shoving a loaded
stretcher into ambulance. I could not see much detail.
The lights began flashing again and the ambulance backed
out swiftly, then screeched as it turned up the street and
took off with sirens wailing.
My mother had suffered a miscarriage. I was deeply
affected and spent days shuddering at the thought of how
emotionally and physically painful it must have been for
her. But at the same time I was angered at discovering
that not one of my puritanical family or relatives would
mention the details or even the word "miscarriage" in my
presence -- I gathered what had happened from bits and
pieces of conversation that leaked out now and then.
During the few days my mom spent in the hospital I was
shipped off to my maternal grandmother's house a few miles
down the road and endured her endless chatter and bad jokes
when she drove me to school each morning in her creaky 1950
Ford. She evaded my questions about what had happened to
my mother, but I figured it out when I overheard her
telling a neighbor that "the baby died."
It was with deep concern that I came from school one day
and Grandma told me she was taking me home because my
mother would be out of the hospital that afternoon. As we
drove and my grandma lapsed into another awful and
unmemorable country joke, I felt some hope that perhaps the
unfortunate incident would somehow narrow some of the
distance between my family and myself. Waiting for Mom and
my step dad to show up, I paced the living room floor
restlessly until I saw our tan Ford arrive shortly before
sunset. Mom was in a bathrobe and overcoat and my step
dad, now treating her with more deference and attention
than I had seen before, opened the car and slowly and
carefully led her to our door.
Mom entered, looking tired but happy to be home again, and
looked down at me and gave me a weak hug. "Well," she
said, "I'm back."
"What was wrong with you?' I asked. "Are you all right
now?"
She averted my eyes and turned to go to the bedroom.
"Well, I was just real real...sick, Speedy."
My step dad held her arm as she slowly and haltingly made
her way into the hallway and the bedroom. He completely
ignored me, which was exactly what I would have expected.
I watched my mother struggle into their bedroom, bracing
herself against a door or a wall as Tony guided her past
the framed portraits of the Virgin and the Sacred Heart and
Saint Jude in the hallway. I watched her getting farther
and farther away from me. Farther than ever. I felt her
pain. I felt her loss. And I felt a distance that I had
little hope of breaching again.
Later in my room and I heard the two of them talking in
hushed tones. Mom was crying softly.
My step dad spoke in a consoling manner I'd never heard him
use. "His soul will be protected, I know it will," he
said.
"But, Tony, I was unconscious," my mother softly cried.
"No one knew to baptize the child. It'll be in limbo
forever."
"There, now," he kept saying.
The incident had changed the way my step dad generally
treated Mom. But it did nothing to quiet my anger nor
smooth the raw feeling I had of not being part of the
household I lived in. I was disgusted with the way he'd
ignored her pain for weeks until the result was disaster
and heartbreak. I was glad he'd had a comeuppance and that
he'd earned it the hard way. And I knew that my mother's
rigid religious fervor meant that I would never be able to
share with her my blasphemous ideas or my certainty that
answers to the mysteries of the universe did not lie in
fairy tales. I could have said that the hereafter didn't
exist anyway. I could have fudged and said that surely
their all-merciful God would not forever consign an
innocent fetus to limbo. But there was no way, in that
house whose furniture and walls were dotted with pictures
of saintly figures and suffering martyrs and plastic
figurines of Jesus, that I could communicate through their
wall of myth and superstition.
I understood their pain. But I could not forgive them for
leaving me alone in a world so different and so distant
from theirs.
Near my thirteenth birthday, Martha Jane called and said
that Mr. Buchanan's Easter present to her and her sister
Evelyn would be to marry their mom soon after Easter and
move all of them into his big East Memphis home. Martha
Jane had mixed feelings about it.
"I'm glad for mother," she told me over the phone. "But I
don't know if I can live in that house. He's nice. But
he's still a redneck and I just can't seem to work past
that fact."
"At least you won't have to spend the rest of your college
career moving from place to place."
"True, but...one more move, actually."
"Oh no, not again!"
"Yes, but it's just a move *out* of where I am, and into
that big house. Oh, well, at least this time I'm his
future daughter, so he's hiring some movers."
"Being his daughter does have its advantages," I offered.
"Come over and help me pack."
"When?"
"I have two weekends when I can do it, the first and second
Saturdays in April. Which one would you like?"
"Both," I said.
"Which one?"
"Both," I repeated.
Her voice on the other end of the line almost sounded as if
she were winking at me. "Okay," she said. "This time
we'll have longer to play. I'll have a car to use. Not
Evelyn's, this time. My daddy-to-be is buying me one."
On a Saturday a few weeks later, Martha Jane showed up in a
bright blue Chevrolet. But she didn't look happy behind
the wheel.
I said after I got into the seat beside her and we were on
our way to her place, "Wow, what a car!"
"It's not me!" she moaned. "This huge gas-burner is NOT
ME! Speedy, I'm scared. Really. I should love this, but
I hate it. I feel as if I'm selling out. And it takes me
an hour to park it."
"Well...you can always give it back."
"But this is terrible! I feel so dishonest. I dread to
think of how I'm going to be punished for this...this
terrible sin! I've invested so much in claiming I was on
my own and had my own ideas, and now I'm selling out."
I spent the afternoon with her and helped her pack books
and clothes. She was cranky the whole time. I tried to
joke around and make light of Mr. Buchanan and to convince
her that at least her life would be settled for a while.
"I don't know what's going to happen to me," she said at
one point. "I had finally got the feeling that I was in
control of my life and I could honestly be myself. Now I
have to spend every day in that house pretending that I
agree with everybody, when I really and truly don't."
"I know," I said ruefully. "How well I know."
"Hon, can I say something?" She was sitting on the floor
with her legs under her and a pile of books in her lap.
"You can say anything you want, Miss Scarlett."
"Something's...wrong inside you, isn't it?"
"Wrong? What you mean, Red Ryder?"
"Because you're trying too hard to erase yourself and you
never talk about what you think or feel anymore. You're
being nice to me about anything and everything, to the
total exclusion of yourself."
I laughed. "You don't like me paying attention to you?
I'm having a good time, just helping you today. Really.
Honest."
"How are things with your mom and your step dad? You never
mention them. I don't have the slightest idea what's up
with you and them."
I didn't know what to say. My own feelings about the way
I'd been living and how powerless I felt were thoroughly
confused. And I didn't want to spoil my time with Martha
Jane by getting into it.
I mumbled something, a careless "Nothing much going on
about that," and she was quiet behind me for a while. For
sometime afterwards we didn't talk much except to say that
another box was packed or to ask which box to pack next.
At around six o'clock she decided we should stop for the
day so she could make salads for dinner.
"You sure got quiet," she said after I had been eating
wordlessly in front of her at the table for five minutes.
I shrugged. "Burned out from all this packing, I guess."
"I guess," she said. She sighed. "Me too."
"So...you'll be living the life of a cool little East
Memphis socialite from now on."
"Please. Don't talk about it while I eat."
I sat and chewed and tried to think of something else to
say. But the only thing I could think about was that
Martha Jane would not be in that college forever, that she
would be teaching one day, perhaps far away. I knew better
than to bring up that subject. In fact, everything that I
could think of as material for discussion somehow led to
the fact that the one person in whom I could place any
trust was surely going to be out of the picture sooner or
later. And on that particular day I wanted very much to
undress her and touch her, but I had grown fearful of even
saying anything or making a move in that direction.
I blinked and looked up. She stared questioningly at me.
"Were you in a trance?" she asked.
"No," I said. She eyed me skeptically. I shrugged and
confessed, "Yes."
"I asked you if you have any girlfriends at school."
The question sent a chill up my spine. "No," I said.
"Someone as active as you, and you don't have some girl
after you?"
I shook my head no.
"Why not, hon?"
I shrugged-- -a big, on-purpose, don't-give-a-damn shrug.
"I'm not interested in anybody."
"I see..." She got up and poured some soda into her
half-empty glass. Wordlessly she returned to the table and
sat.
After a moment she looked into her glass and said slowly,
"I wonder ..Speedy...oh, never mind."
I did not know what she was hinting at. I looked up to
find her staring at me again. I had just taken a big bite
of salad. Desperately reaching for something to talk about
that had nothing to do with my thoughts or with anything
else, I pointed at my face and said with a full mouth,
"Nice salad. Good."
She gave me a sad little smirk. "Speedy, you're not
talking to me. You're just throwing words across the
table."
"I'm eating," I said, and tried to grin with lettuce
sticking out one side of my lips.
"You're a miserable failure as a liar, you know that?"
"What am I lying about, Miss District Attorney?"
"The same thing I'm lying about."
"You? What are you lying about?"
She hesitated. She opened her lips to speak, but didn't.
I repeated, "What are you lying about and why?"
She took a deep breath and looked me right in the eye.
"I'm not lying, really. It's just that there's something
I'm not talking about."
I joked, "Well, gee, thanks for telling me that there's
something you're not telling me about."
"You're doing it, too. But you won't even tell me that
you're not telling me about it."
I shook my head and moved uneasily in the chair. "Miss
Graham, this sounds so complicated."
"Speedy, what do I have to do to keep you from going inside
yourself like that? You're so clever about it, but you're
so distant when you do that, and it's something you do
again and again and -- -"
"No," I said quickly. I gave her a tired, strained smile.
"No, Martha Jane, it's...things I don't know how to talk
about yet."
"Oh, goodie, I think I hit the target! What? What
things?"
"No."
"What things?"
"No!" I insisted, verging on defensive anger. I'm sure I
turned a little red, but I let it go no further than that.
I was getting better at holding it all in, because I was
sure that a tear would show, or I'd let slip some desperate
motion or remark. But all I let out was a quiet and
definite no.
"Well," she said reluctantly, "all right, then. I won't
nag."
"Let's pack some more stuff," I said, brightening up.
"No."
"Martha Jane...I'm -- I guess I'm just bored and tired."
"You sure?"
"Mm-hmm."
The look on her face told me she didn't believe me. But
all she said was, "Will you promise not to run away while I
take a shower? I'm all dusty from this work."
"Can I shower first? You really had me sweating today.
What a slave-driver."
"Okay. You, then me."
I showered first, very quickly-- -not that I was so grungy,
but I wanted to prepare a surprise for her while she
washed. After I dried off, she followed. While she
showered I remained undressed, cleaned up the kitchen,
turned down all the lights, readied the bed, and lay naked
in the bedroom face-up with my hands behind my head and my
cock standing straight up in the air.
She came out of the bath toweling her hair. She stopped
short in the doorway when she saw me. Her eyes widened and
she laughed. "Well, well! Am I to gather from this that
you are making the moves this time?"
"Isn't it my turn?"
She smirked. "Let me clean up the kitchen."
"I already did it."
"Oh," she said, impressed. "Really! My-- -All this, and
he does dishes, too." She threw the towel aside and
climbed on the bed and crawled stealthily toward me.
"C'mere, you..."
Almost an hour later she lay naked under me with her knees
raised while I fucked her rapidly in the soft bed in her
dark bedroom. She had cum twice, once under my mouth and
once with me inside her.
"Slower," she taunted, her eyes fixed on mine. "Let it
build up."
"...it's so good, it's close now..."
"Let it feel good longer, honey. Look at me." She held my
face gently but firmly. "Let me see your eyes."
I trained my eyes on hers.
Her hazel orbs searched mine knowingly. She stroked my
face as I moved in her. I was physically close to climax,
but emotionally distant -- and Martha Jane had uncanny ways
of sensing it.
She said, "You've been hiding something from me for a long
time."
Trying to evade her, I stared back intently. "No."
"You don't have to tell me what it is. But I don't want it
holding you back from me when we fuck. Let go of it. Let
it go so you can really enjoy fucking me."
Her offer melted my resistance, and I could not prevent my
face and eyes from softening with gratitude -- a reaction
she acknowledged with a little grin of recognition.
I stopped moving. I tried telling her, "I keep
thinking...I don't know how to say it..."
"Shh. No thinking. It's so seldom that we can be together
like this. I'm being very selfish: I want to give you a
wonderful cum. I want you to stop thinking and cum."
I began moving in her again, but she cradled my face once
more and said, "Slow, hon. Make it last until you can stop
thinking so much."
I slowed my pace and lengthened my strokes so that I
withdrew almost all the way out before going even deeper in
her.
"Good," she said. "Yes. Take your time. Go deep."
I dreaded she would make it so good that I would forget
myself completely, that my fears and anger would have me
crying or screaming when I came. But her eyes and voice
enticed me out of myself despite all my recent conditioning
to the contrary. I felt my emotions welling up to match
the intense pleasure I felt inside her.
She urged me on with lusty whispers and an ingenious knack
for holding me on the edge and delaying my release until
the defenses that imprisoned my pleasure behind a wall of
rage and isolation had been obliterated. For a long time
she would not let me cum until I was so overpowered with
lust that, with a helpless sob, I relinquished all control
to my back and hips and allowed them to pump my cock into a
mindless state of raw pleasure. Below me, she received my
surrender with a sweet smile.
Everything disappeared. I yelled. I slowed and spurted.
She hissed, "Yessss...yes, hon...MMM! So MUCH!...yes,
baby!...oh yes enjoy it, such a good cum..." When she felt
my orgasm waning she rolled her hips in a slow arc and drew
my last remnants into her clutching warmth.
As usual, she thoroughly destroyed and drained me. I fell
asleep in her arms until she woke me up to drive me home.
On the way she asked if I felt better. I answered, yes, I
felt better. But what I did not say was that nothing had
changed.
Continued...
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